Code Shield (7 page)

Using a paper cutter, he slit the box open and retrieved a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, which was in a leather holster. Lowe flicked the cylinder open, peered into the empty chamber and spun the cylinder with his thumb. Before the cylinder clattered to a halt, he snapped it back with a flick of his wrist.

Tara and Benjamin exchanged wry looks.

The CNB man removed the cover of a small cardboard box, turned the box over and caught the twelve .38 calibre rounds in his other hand. He puckered his lips, shoved the revolver in his belt and slipped the ammunition into his pocket. Next, he removed two bubble-wrapped packages from the box.

“There are two receivers,” he said as he ripped open the bubble wraps. “One is for you, one for us.” He handed the gadget to Tara.

“Us?” asked Benjamin.

“I have the Volvo from the car pool at my disposal,” announced Lowe. He spread a fold-in grid map of Moscow on the table.

“The transmitter has a radius of one kilometre, strong signals and the latest American model. No triangulation required, works more like ground radar and it bounces signals off cloud cover – perfect in this country. Battery life is seventy-two hours.” Lowe pulled back his sleeve and made a show of studying his watch, a frown on his face. “There're more than thirty hours remaining. Ms Banks will cover this sector west of the Leningrad Highway and I shall cover this, east of the highway.” He straightened up,

“We locate, observe and trail them to the buyer, nothing more. That's our target – the buyer.” Then with a smirk, “We don't have jurisdiction here but Ms Banks shall call on her Russian friends to make the arrests at the appropriate time. Any questions?”

Tara had a smile on her face but said nothing. Benjamin caught the smile but stifled his own when the assistant director turned on him,

“Let's move. You're driving.” Lowe tossed the keys to Benjamin, who snatched it in mid-air with his left hand.

They headed for the covered car park behind the building, with Lowe strutting ahead, bursting with enthusiasm.

“Instant-coffee culture, the man wants to right the world's wrongs today and preferably by close of business,” whispered Benjamin as he fell back.

“More like trying to make up for yesterday, when he peed in his pants,” said Tara under her breath.

“Do we tell the white horse?” a mischievous smile on Benjamin's face.

“White horse? Oh, I get it. Nope!” winked Tara. “He's still under toilet training.”

After three hours of cruising, Tara picked up the first faint signals and made several turns before the signal grew stronger.

She gave Benjamin the coordinates and about an hour later, they pulled up beside each other in a deserted industrial estate.

The estate was one of several dozen that lay in disuse on the northern part of Moscow, between the Third Ring Road and the MKAD. Many of the buildings, with snow thick roofs, were former munitions factories and research institutes, hastily converted for commercial use following the collapse of the Soviet Union and just as hastily abandoned after the first few years of disastrous experiments with market economy.

“The signals are coming from the third workshop after the first right turn ahead, along Dmitrovsky Street,” Tara's voice brisk, the sharp wind snatching away her words.

Lowe had turned whiter than his normal pale complexion. He rubbed his gloved palms vigorously and his voice quivered as he spoke,

“We stake out the place, you take the first shift and we'll relieve you at midnight.”

Tara ignored him, slipped into the backseat of the Volvo and patted Benjamin. He engaged gear, gave a cursory glance to his left and headed the car towards the junction. A thin blanket of snow lined both sides of the street, bleeding runnels of water onto the black tarmac.

“What're you doing?” Lowe demanded furiously.

“Ben, turn down that goddam heater, it's like a sauna in here,” Tara's voice terse.

“With pleasure,” replied Benjamin.

“What're you doing? Stop I say,” the CNB man blurted in protest.

“I'm not about to waste my time staking out an empty workshop, especially one which the Mafiya will never return to.” Tara pressed her face to the window, scanning every door and window along the deserted street.

After two passes, Benjamin parked along Dmitrovsky Street, about fifty metres from the target workshop and got out of the car. Soft fluffs of snow floated down.

Tara pulled up her collars, buried her hands deep into her pockets and followed him. A small breeze caught her black sable fur hat. She stopped, turned and addressed the pale faced man in the car,

“You coming?”

Lowe ignored her and folded his arms. Tara wondered whether he was cold or was simply putting on a tantrum. Either way she was not bothered.

“Okay, suit yourself,” Tara was nonchalant, “If there's a hit man lurking around, he'll probably get the guy in the car first. It's the worst place for you to be, especially since the Volvo is not bullet proof. You should've taken the Skoda instead, fully armoured. But I suppose that would be beneath your status.”

That caught the assistant director's attention and he fumbled with the car door, hurried out and caught up with his two companions,

“Shouldn't we get police backup from your Russian friends? What if the Mafiya are waiting for us inside?” His voice had turned meek, lost all the arrogance displayed in the embassy.

“Stop bleating and arm yourself,” snapped Tara as she continued to stride towards the workshop.

“What –” Lowe stopped, fumbled under his heavy overcoat. He pulled out the Smith & Wesson, his other hand reaching under his coat for the rounds. Unaccustomed to handling the weapon while wearing thick gloves and with his hands shaking uncontrollably, the rounds slipped through his fingers and were lost in the soft snow. “Wait, I –”

Benjamin and Tara reached the shed. A corrugated access door swung lazily in the breeze, banging shut, squeaking open.

Benjamin noticed that Tara slipped her hand over the holster under her armpit but did not pull out her weapon. He straddled the door with his .38 revolver clasped in both hands and pointed up next to his ear.

When she nodded, Benjamin pushed the door open and stepped aside.

In one lightning move, Tara darted in and to the side, away from the outside light.

Benjamin marvelled at her agility. He waited a second before rolling into the workshop and getting up in a crouch, the gun held steady in his outstretched hands.

The workshop was gloomy and had a dusky stale smell. The place was dead silent except for the slow drip of water. Peering into the dark, it took his eyes a few moments to dilate.

Tara had retrieved a small torch from her pocket.

“I'll get some bigger lights,” offered Benjamin and stepped into the day.

He found the CNB man on all fours, scratching away the snow and searching for the spilled rounds.

Ignoring the
white horse's
fatuous efforts, Benjamin retrieved a couple of powerful flashlights and re-joined Tara. He found her at a worktable, inspecting several empty luggage bags – the linings in the bags ripped open, the locating beacons flashing intermittent red lights.

A few minutes later, Lowe stepped meekly into the workshop.

“Are these yours?” Tara asked and the assistant director assented.

“These guys are smarter than you think, Lowe,” said Tara. “They probably dumped the bags here right after they lost us yesterday. So, this was your great idea to track down these guys?”

“I'm missing one,” whispered Lowe.

“What?” asked Tara, her head shaking with incredulity.

“The bullets dropped in the snow. One is missing. What do you people do? How do you account for –?” Lowe's voice trailed away.

Benjamin burst out laughing,
Toilet training all right!

Chapter 10

Michael took shelter under a tembusu tree, at the far end of the public car park beside Jurong Police Station. The heat and the humidity were stifling. He realised too late that he should not have had that last cup of coffee.

Now his bladder was full and he dared not leave the place as it would mean a ten-minute hop across the road to the hawker-centre and back, and he did not want to miss Sergeant Pang. He squeezed his knees together and wondered if he should take a chance behind the tree.

Sergeant Pang was in a foul mood. He had only four hours of sleep. It looked like another long day and he was already nursing a throbbing head. Just then, he saw a familiar but irksome figure.

“Sergeant Pang,” Michael ran up calling as the plainclothes police officer reached his car.

“You again, this is the second time in as many days, what do you want?” snapped the sergeant.

“Sir, do you have any news about my daughter. You agreed to check with the airport,” Michael panted as he positioned himself in front of the car door.

“I told you we're working on it, now move aside,” ordered the police officer.

“Sir, please it's been three days,” Michael placed his hand on the door of the tall SUV.

“Are you going to move aside or not?” the IO's voice officious and hard as he placed his clipboard on the roof of his car, thus freeing his hands.

“My lawyer has written to your superintendent –”

Before he could complete the sentence, the sergeant threw a sharp punch into Michael's stomach and another on his face.

“I told you to move aside.”

Michael collapsed with a soft groan. He lay sprawled on the tarmac, coughing and spewing blood from his mouth. He shielded his eyes from the blinding shafts of sunlight cutting through the overhanging branches.

Sergeant Pang's sunglasses flew off and clattered under the vehicle. He pulled back his leg, ready to swing a vicious kick but stopped. He stared down on the fallen man and was stunned at the sight.

There was a whiff of ammonia – Michael had wet his pants and a dark stain was spreading quickly.

The policeman looked about, embarrassed but thankful that no one had witnessed the incident. The tall SUV had blocked them from view. He bent down and pulled Michael up with both hands,

“I told you to leave me alone. You know I can arrest you for interfering with my movements?” The sergeant raised his voice and that made him more contrite, “Damn!”

Michael leaned heavily against the car, his head down.

“I'm sorry I didn't mean to…but my daughter –” Michael clutched his stomach.

“Okay, okay I hear you,” the IO cast his eyes about the car park. “Are you alright?”

Michael coughed and nodded weakly.

“You'd better get yourself cleaned,” the sergeant's voice had lost all its officious tone, was low and apologetic. He placed his hand on Michael's stiff bony shoulder, “Do you have a car?”

Michael grimaced and pointed in the direction of the hawker-centre across the road. He looked down at himself and held his trousers out trying to keep the wet linen from touching his skin.

The policeman ducked into his SUV and emerged with a box of tissue, “Here, clean up.” He pushed Michael lightly by the shoulder, “Go now…go on.”

“Please sir, what about my daughter?” Tears streamed down Michael's cheek and blood and spittle bubbled from his lips.

The IO let out a loud sigh, bringing down his shoulders sharply, he looked left and then at the man before him. Michael simply stood looking back, no anger in his eyes, no embarrassment in his face.

“I'll do anything for my daughter, sir –”

“Okay…I'll see what I can do,” Sergeant Pang's voice was soft, embarrassed for Michael. “Go. I promise, now go.”

The policeman stood under the hot sun, watching Michael hitch up his trousers and run awkwardly across the road. The man stopped on the centre divider, dashed across to the other side and disappeared from view.

Sergeant Pang retrieved his sunglasses from under the SUV, blew the dust off and held them to the light before slipping them on his face. His head pounded terribly.

He was about to regain his car when his cell phone buzzed, “Yeah?”

“Pang,” it was his team leader. “Where the hell are you, still in the car park? Good, get right back now. The Sup is on the warpath, he received a lawyer's letter, a complaint.”

Sergeant Pang cursed under his breath, hurried back as he spoke, “What lawyer's letter, what complaint?”

“…about some runaway girl, your case file. To make matters worse, it's from Venkat.”

“Who the hell is Venkat?”

The next day, Michael's cell phone rang. It was Sergeant Pang, asking to meet him at the station.

“Come alone,” commanded the voice.

It was a busy afternoon; people milled about and all the seats in Jurong Town Station's waiting hall were taken up. The sergeant had commandeered one of the meeting rooms.

“That letter sent by your lawyer created problems for many people and I don't really know why I'm doing this now. We had to write officially to the airport people to retrieve the surveillance tapes.”

“Thank you sir,” whispered Michael.

Sergeant Pang asked of Michael, “How're you feeling?”

“It's okay,” Michael mumbled. His left cheek swollen purple, the cut on his lips had closed, leaving a red welt.

The sergeant studied the man for a few moments and then continued,

“This is a video grab of a girl and her
ang moh
boyfriend checking in at the airport.” He placed several glossy prints on the table. “Recognise anyone?”

“That looks like Annette.”

“Do you recognise the man? They took a flight to Istanbul but had their luggage checked through to Moscow.”

“No,” Michael shook his head slowly.

“He's Russian, a Ruslan Kashin,” Sergeant Pang pointed at the man in the picture. “Your daughter seems to know him and I'm sorry to say but it looks like she might have run away with him.”